


Scars

by Ellie226



Series: Mark/El [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Play, Cutting, Daddy Kink, F/M, Spanking, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 15:23:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellie226/pseuds/Ellie226
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark and El have a nice normal relationship.  El just has some not-so-nice, not-so-normal, secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How We Started

**Author's Note:**

> The first part of the Mark/El universe.
> 
> Please be warned, stories within the Mark/El universe have a blanket warning for mentions of childhood sexual abuse, self-injury, suicidal ideations, and dubious consent.

Even after I met Mark, the need didn’t go away. Some days, I had to hurt myself; it made me feel better. I had to be more careful about it, but that wasn’t too hard. Excuses are pretty easy.

My cat scratched me. I scraped my arm against a file in the office. I must have done it while I slept. There was a kid thrashing in a hold.

I’m pale, and I have sensitive skin. It’s easy to convince people that the marks are nothing.

We had lived together for 3 months, 1 week, and 6 days when I slipped. I had a bad day. No, that’s not entirely true. I had a great day with one bad thing. And even with all the amazing stuff that happened that day, all I could think about was five bad minutes. Four great compliments in one day and my mind was looping the criticism from the one defeat.

When I got home, the house was still empty. I knew that I needed to start dinner, but I figured I had a little bit of time. So I pulled my nail file out, and I sat cross-legged on the couch, the sleeve of my sweater pulled up to my elbow.

Slowly, as slowly as I could bear, I pulled the tip of the file across my arm. The line turned white; it wasn’t enough. Staring intently, I pushed harder, forcing the file into my arm. This time, the line turned white, and then flooded red.

I sighed in relief. That was the goal. The welt was almost instantaneous, and there was no blood. I felt like I could take a deep breath for the first time since I’d been called in by my supervisor.

But it wasn’t enough. Stupid, bad, worthless. Stupid, bad, worthless. Stupidbadworthless. I dragged the file across again and again, repeating the mantra. I was so focused that I didn’t hear him come in, didn’t realize he was there even, until he grabbed me.

“What are you doing?” his voice was shocked. I hadn’t wanted him to see me like this, but he should know. This was what he had gotten himself into. Run away while you still can. I tried to wrench myself away from him. It was too close, too much, and I couldn’t move; I couldn’t breathe.

He climbed behind me on the couch and pulled me against him. He wouldn’t let go. I began thrashing around. I couldn’t breathe. He wouldn’t let me breathe.

I tried to jam the nail file into his hand. He needed to let me go. I needed space. I needed air. I managed to scratch him, but then he grabbed my hand and wouldn’t let it go. My blood was roaring in my ears; I couldn’t hear anything as I fought against him.

He told me later that I could breathe. I kept telling him to let me go, begging and pleading for space he couldn’t give me. At some point, he managed to twist the nail file out of my hand so I couldn’t hurt himself or me anymore. He said he threw it across the room, but I never saw it again.

When I finally exhausted myself and could hear again, I was soaked in sweat and tears. My throat was raw from screaming and begging him to let me go. He was rocking me gently, still behind me on the couch, my back to his chest. We went forward and backward as he murmured in my ear.

“You’re okay. You can breathe. Breathe, sweetheart. You can do it. You’re fine. We’re fine. Shhhhhh.” Again and again, he kept telling me these things.

I forced myself to stop shaking, to relax against him. I was not four years old; he was not going to hurt me. I just needed him to let me go. I couldn’t be like this against him. I needed space away from him. I breathed deeply, trying to convince him I was calm.

It seemed like forever, but I don’t really know. He finally released me, cautiously, slowly. As soon as I was sure he had let me go, I shot off of his lap and across the room to the free corner. Sinking to the floor, arms wrapped around myself, I watched him carefully, waiting. It wasn’t enough space. He was too big.

When he stood up, I pushed myself further back against the wall. I wanted to sink through it; if I could have clawed a hole for myself, I would have. I held out one arm, my hand up like a stop sign, and my other arm across my body protectively. “No, no, no, no,” I whimpered, begging him to not come closer.

He froze, two steps from the couch, and still at least eight from me. He slowly lowered himself to the ground, crossing his legs and keeping his hands low. “It’s okay, baby. I’m over here. I’m not going to get any closer until you say I can. Okay? We’re okay. We’re going to sit here for a little bit. Do you think you can tell me what happened?”

I sat silently for a minute, shaking. Finally, I managed to whisper, “I had a bad day.”

He nodded calmly, as though that made perfect sense, then waited quietly for me to say more. I couldn’t look at him, ashamed.

“Did I hurt you?” I finally managed to ask.

He lifted the hand I had stabbed at, and I cringed against the wall, closing my eyes, “Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry Sorry-”

He managed to break through my apologies, “It’s okay, baby. I’m fine. I was showing you my arm; you didn’t break the skin.”

I forced my eyes open and nodded at this. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...I just needed...” I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know how to explain to him what I needed.

“I scared you,” he offered gently.

I nodded tremulously.

“I didn’t mean to; I’m sorry.”

I bit my lip and looked away from him, my eyes welling with tears. “I was scared. It was too much. You were all over me and I couldn’t...I couldn’t get away.”

“I’m sorry, Ellie. When I came in and saw what you were doing, I got scared. I wanted to stop you, and I didn’t think about scaring you.”

I nodded again, still avoiding eye contact.

“Can you tell me what you were doing?” his voice was gentle, coaxing.

“Sometimes, it makes me feel better.”

“What makes you feel better, sweetheart?”

“Doing that? With the nail file?” I heard my voice going up, checking that he understood.

“You mean hurting yourself?”

“It doesn’t hurt.”

“It looks like it hurts. Your arm’s pretty red.”

“No...” I was frustrated. “It feels better.”

“Better than what?”

I shrugged. I didn’t know how to tell him that it felt better than everything else; that I felt like I couldn’t breathe all the time.

His eyes closed. He looked like he was in pain. When he opened them, they were full of tears.

I needed to explain to him, but I couldn’t find the words. I wanted to make him feel better; I couldn’t stand the look on his face, knowing that I caused it. I swallowed hard, then forced myself to begin moving across the floor.

I couldn’t make myself stand up, but low to the ground, I crawled to him. I knelt near him, just close enough that I could reach out a hand and touch him. Hopefully not so close that I couldn’t move away from him if I needed to.

I slowly lifted my hand and brushed the tears from his cheeks, “Don’t cry,” I whispered. “It’s okay.”

He looked at me and shook his head slowly, “No, sweetheart, it’s not. I need you to tell me why you’re doing that.”

I scooted further away from him, putting my back to the wall and hugging my knees to my chest. “Sometimes,” I started, “sometimes it just makes me feel better.” I shrugged.

“Do you understand why?”

I shook my head, then buried my face against my knees. With my voice muffled, I tried to explain, “I-I-It’s just-” I stopped and forced myself to take a breath. “When I feel bad, it’s too much all inside. I feel like I can’t breathe. There’s no space for anything. When I use my file...It’s like some of it goes away. It makes everything smaller. I can get air in.”

“Do you need to make things small a lot?” Mark’s voice was careful.

“Sometimes.”

“How much of the time Ellie?”

I lifted my head and looked up toward the ceiling, not wanting to see his face when I told him, “Ummmm. Maybe twice a week? It depends. Sometimes more. Sometimes less.”

“How many times this week?” Mark’s voice was a little stronger now; he was used to my vague answers.

“This has been a bad week...”I trailed off, hoping he wouldn’t want more information.

“That’s not an answer.”

“Four times,” my voice was soft.

Mark nodded, “I see.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes, then he began talking again. “You aren’t allowed to do that anymore.”

I looked at him then. “What?” I had expected him to tell me to leave. I couldn’t not do this. I needed it. “I have to.”

“No,” his voice was firm. “You are not allowed to hurt yourself. I understand that you’re hurting, but this is not okay. No more.

I started flexing my hands manically and breathing rapidly, “I need it. It doesn’t hurt. It’s okay.”

“We need to talk to someone about this, Ellie.”

“No! There’s nothing wrong with me,” my voice broke as I said that. I knew what someone meant. I didn’t need to talk to anyone.

“No,” he smiled at me, “You are absolutely perfect. But needing to hurt yourself? That’s not okay. We need to talk to someone to help you so you don’t need it anymore.”

I really started crying then. “Why won’t you just let me be? Some people exercise too much or overeat; I do this. It makes me feel better.”

He nodded sadly, “I understand that. That’s why we need to talk to someone; there are other things you can do to make yourself feel better.”

I tried to disappear, forehead to knees and arms over my head. “No,” I cried.

I felt him next to me, and I tensed as he gently stroked my back. “Yes. I’m sorry that you don’t want to, but we need to. So tomorrow, we’re going to stay home from work, and I’m going to make some calls so you can see a therapist and your doctor.”

I clenched my hand in frustration, smacking myself in the back with one fist, “Don’t want to. Please, Mark?”

He pulled me up into his lap, even as I tensed myself. “It’s okay. You know I’m not going to hurt you. I just need to make sure you don’t hurt yourself right now. Understand?”

I nodded my head. I didn’t like it, but he wasn’t holding me on his lap really. His arms were loose, and I could get away if I got scared. It wasn’t like before.

“I need you to listen to me. I love you so much, and I won’t let anybody hurt you, even you. It’s okay that you don’t want to do this, but we’re going to. If you can’t keep yourself safe right now, I’m going to do it for you.”

I cried, leaning against him, “I don’t want to go .”

“It’s going to be okay. Do you trust me?”

I nodded warily.

“I promise, we’re going to fix this.”

We sat for what seemed like forever. After a while, I let he take a look at my arm, and he ran gentle fingers over my welts. There were a lot; I didn’t remember doing that much. I had managed to break the skin in a few spots, and he forced me up to sit on the kitchen counter while he cleaned my cuts and then wrapped my arm up in gauze.

“It’s not that bad,” I told him, looking at the gauze covering the entirety of my left forearm.

“I know. I wrapped that up, and I’ll be able to tell if you mess with it. Leave it alone, understand?”

I nodded, ashamed that he had to do this, that he couldn’t trust me.

He made us both dinner, not letting me down from the counter where he could see me. When we sat down to eat, he was gentle but firm; I had to eat dinner, and no, not just the egg noodles.

When he was convinced that I had eaten enough, he lifted me back up on the counter, next to the sink this time, and talked with me while he washed dishes. He wouldn’t let me help. Sitting still, thinking. It was torture.

He was quiet. He was calm. He was immovable. He kept forcing me through the motions. Dinner, then a shower, then into bed. I was tired from everything. I figured he would go out to watch television, or go wash his face, or something. He wouldn’t leave me alone. He sat next to me on the bed, with his laptop open.

I lay on my side, staring at him. “What are you doing?” I asked.

“Research,” he smiled at me, then returned to the computer. I slowly drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, he called the doctor first thing. He managed to get me an appointment, and then he forced me up and out of bed so we could go.

When we got to the doctor’s office, he insisted upon coming back with me. When the nurse tried to get him to leave, he refused. One of the nurses pulled me aside to make sure it was okay. I shrugged, no energy to form the words to explain.

Having him there was helpful when the doctor came in. He had a lot of questions, which answered what his Internet research was about. I didn’t really pay attention, mostly looking out the window and swinging my legs. When we left the office, we had a prescription for anti-depressants and a referral for therapy. Mark also had a list of things to try at home.

We stopped on the way home to pick up the other supplies the doctor had mentioned. I still wasn’t paying much attention, and I would have much rather that he just take me home and came back shopping by himself. The way he was acting, I doubted he would ever let me out of his sight again.

All through the store, he wanted me within sight-line of the cart, and he would call me back over when I wandered. He threw different things in, coloring books and colored pencils; a weird lamp. I didn’t care. I just wanted to go home.

We didn’t. He told me we had to go grocery shopping, and when I argued and told him I wanted to go home, he simply drove to the grocery store and sat in the parking lot until I agreed to get out of the car and shop.

I wouldn’t talk in the grocery store. My arms wrapped around myself; I wouldn’t let him touch me. I hated everything he was picking up. I wanted to go home. I knew I was acting like a four year old, but I couldn’t seem to stop.

When we finally left the store, he had had enough. “Get in the car. I’m going to put the groceries in the trunk and put the cart away.”

I got into the car, still glaring. He was a mean, bossy, control freak. I wasn’t allowed to be mad. I wasn’t allowed to do the one thing that made me feel better. I wasn’t allowed to decide when I needed to go to the doctor. Maybe he would like to just start telling me when I needed to breathe since he didn’t trust me to make any of my own decisions.

I told him as much when he got into the car, and he nodded, staring out the windshield. “I’m sorry you’re upset, but I’m not going to stop.”

I stared out the window away from him. I didn’t want to talk.

We were quiet on the way home, and when we pulled up to the house, I jumped out of the car and made to go indoors.

“Stop,” he told me. “You need to help me take the bags in, and you’re not to be out of my sight until I tell you otherwise.”

I clenched my hands into fists; it helped me relax a bit. My nails weren’t long enough to really hurt, but it was enough discomfort to make me feel better. It calmed me, and I helped carry the bags in without further complaint.

I stood in the kitchen, watching him put bags away. He surprised me, gesturing to the counter and rummaging through a shopping bag for stuff. When I was seated, he came over with a journal and pen.

“I want you to write.”

“Write what?” I didn’t know what he was doing.

“What’s happening. Why you’re angry with me. What made you decide to hurt yourself last night. I don’t care. Just write.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

I glared at the paper, not knowing what to write. I sat stubbornly for a while before he interrupted my angry thoughts.

“You can take all day if you want, sweetheart, but you’re going to write for me.”

At that, I glared at him. And then I began writing. I wrote about how much I hated him; how bossy and unfair he was. That I hated the therapist and didn’t want to go. That I hated the medication and wouldn’t take it. I hated the journal, and it was stupid and wouldn’t help.

He finally took my journal away when my hand started to cramp, and he began reading it.

“Okay. Thank you,” handing me a coloring book, he started moving around the kitchen, making lunch.

“What do you want me to do with this?”

“It’s a coloring book. I want you to color.”

“Why? I’m not a little kid, Mark.”

“No, but I read last night that coloring mandalas can be helpful. Pick one.”

“No. I’m sick of you bossing me around."

With that, I hopped off the stool and started to stalk out the door. He caught me before I made it all the way out, grabbing my arm.

“Lemme go!” I yelled at him then.

“No, you can’t just walk out of here because you don’t like what’s happening. Now go sit down.”

I jerked away from him and walked over to the counter. Sitting there, I stared at the coloring book for a while. It was too much. I couldn’t do this. Taking my hands, I scratched as hard as I could down both arms. I did it again and again, even as I felt him grabbing my hands and trying to hold me still.

He got my arms up so I couldn’t scratch them anymore, but now my hands were near my face. When he saw that I was getting ready to claw at myself again, he did something different.

The smack stung, even through my jeans, and I yelped. “OW!”

“You cannot hurt yourself. Do you understand me?”

I looked at him, shocked. He had just hit me. I opened my mouth to yell at him, but instead, I heard myself saying, “Sorry.”

Why did I just do that? Why was I apologizing to him? He looked as surprised as I did, but then he nodded at me.

“Thank you for apologizing, baby. Now go on, sit back down and color like I asked you to please.”

I looked at him appraisingly. “I don’t want to.”

“I didn’t ask you what you wanted. Sit down and do it.”

I felt myself moving back to the counter and sitting down. I felt calmer than I had in weeks as I picked up the colored pencils and began shading a picture. That feeling of calmness stayed with me through lunch, and then I started to panic again.

For years, it had been my safety net. Knowing that I could control that one thing, and that I knew it made me feel better...it made getting through each day easier. I could feel myself breathing more shallowly once we finished eating, and I wanted to go into the bathroom. I wanted ten minutes to myself. It would give me time to claw at my legs. He would never know.

I started toward the bathroom purposefully. Maybe if I acted like it wasn’t a problem, it just wouldn’t be.

No such luck

“Ellie, where are you going?”

“Um, the bathroom,” I made myself sound confused, like I didn’t understand why he would be asking me.

He stood up and followed me.

“What are YOU doing?” I asked.

“I’m not coming in with you, I’ll keep my back to the door so I can’t watch, but the door stays open. I don’t trust that you’re not going to hurt yourself.”

I stomped my foot at that. This had gone entirely too far. “I can go by myself.”

“Not today.”

It was too much. I couldn’t do this with him. I started screaming and yelling, telling him to go away and leave me alone. I needed to do this; he couldn’t stop me. I told him that he was a dictatorial fuck-tard, and that I hated him.

Mark crossed the floor in a few steps and smacked my bottom again. I jumped this time and tried to jerk away from his restraining hand, but he had too much of a hold on me. This time, he didn’t stop at one.

Swatting me several times, he began lecturing, “You don’t talk to me that way. You can be angry, but you cannot swear at me. Understand?”

When he stopped smacking me, both of my hands went back to rub furiously. It had stung much more this time. I wanted to hit him; I wanted to walk out the door. Instead, I flung myself at him and cried while he hugged me.

I tried to explain through my sobs. “Sorry. Sorry. I don’t want to be like this. I just can’t stop. Sorry, Daddy.” Shit! Where did that come from? I waited for him to pull away, but he didn’t.

“Shhhhhhh. Calm down. You’re going to calm down, and then we can talk.” His hands rubbed soothingly at my back, and I sobbed even harder.

He finally walked us both over to the couch and sat down, pulling me with him. Curled half on his lap, I cried myself out.

When I felt like I didn’t have any tears left, he started talking quietly while he stroked my hair.

“We need to talk about this,” his voice was careful, as though he didn’t know what words to use.

I buried my face in my arms, not wanting to make eye contact, “No,” I mumbled.

“Yes,” he started pulling me up, “sit up, baby. We need to talk.”

“No,” I whined, making myself as heavy as I could.

“Eleanor Rose, do you want a spanking?”

I sat up at that. “You can’t spank me!” I sounded outraged, but I found the idea oddly soothing.

“That’s what we need to talk about then.”

I pulled away from him, sitting as far away from Mark as I could while still sitting on the couch. Knees up, I stared determinedly at my legs, not making eye contact and waiting for him to talk.

“You called me Daddy.”

I blushed bright red at that, then nodded slowly. He thought I was a freak; he was going to walk out the door and leave. I wish he would just do it.

“Would that make you feel better?”

“What?” my voice was low. Why didn’t he just leave?

“Having a Daddy...” he trailed off.

“No! I was just-you surprised me.”

“Hmmm,” he nodded at that. “You know, Elle, if you were my little girl, I’d spank you for lying to Daddy.”

My eyes shot up at that, staring at him, shocked.

“Would it be the worst thing?” he asked me. “You seemed to like having someone to tell you what to do. You seem calmer then.”

“What,” I stopped myself and cleared my throat, back to staring at my knees. “What if I did?”

“That’s what we need to talk about.”

“Okay, but what...what were you thinking?” my voice was hesitant. This was so fucking embarrassing.

“Well, we would have rules.”

“Like?”

“Well, definitely no swearing at me. That was very naughty.”

I squirmed at that,” I’m sorry; I didn’t...I didn’t mean it.”

“I know. You’re upset. That’s why another rule we would need is that you have to go and talk to someone else. You can’t keep hurting yourself, baby. So therapy, medication...everything about this would be mandatory; Daddy would make decisions.”

“What if I don’t agree with you?”

“We could talk about it. If you want to debate, we can do that. I know you’re good at arguing,” I could hear the smile in his voice as he said that. “But, I have the final call.”

I swallowed. It sounded nice, to let someone else make decisions. To just relax and let someone else take care of me for a change.

“What if I can’t do it?”

“Can’t do what?”

“Follow the rules.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. If this is what you want, then I’ll help you to do what you need to do.”

“What if I didn’t follow the rules?”

“The same thing that just happened. I’d spank you sometimes, or maybe you would have time-out. But it wouldn’t all be punishment, sweetheart. It’s mostly about helping you do the stuff you know you need to do anyway. The doctor said you needed to eat better and get enough sleep so that your body isn’t messing with your head.”

“Would you read to me?” I whispered this. I didn’t know how he would respond.

“Come here,” he held his arms out, and I shifted back toward him, settling with my back to his chest. He put his arms around me, and I relaxed against him.

“I would love to read to you, baby.”

“What if I hate it? What if I can’t do this?”

“We try it. If it’s awful; we stop. But honestly, even if we stop, Ellie, I’m not going to let go of some of this stuff. You have to go and talk to the therapist and follow the doctor’s directions.”

I nodded at that.

“You want to try?”

I nodded again.

“Alright then. We’ll try it.”


	2. The First Day

It was hard to begin with. It’s still hard. But it was harder to begin with because neither of us knew what we were doing. And then we had the same issues we had before we started.

I had never had someone willing to deal with me. Not really. When people found out about my moods, my history...They walked away. I told myself that I liked it better that way; fewer complications. Just me and my dysfunctional coping mechanisms.

So Mark sticking around. Mark being Daddy...it was new. I didn’t know how to deal with it. He took a few days off from work, and he made me do the same. Three days after that first day when we went to the doctor. And then it was the weekend. The longest amount of time I had ever been away from work, and it was driving me crazy. More crazy I guess.

I kept thinking and thinking about everything piling up. Reports and phone calls and crises oh my. And I needed to be there.

Daddy didn’t get it. He wanted me to relax. He wanted us to talk and spend time together and work out what we were doing. And it was hard.

He was amazing. That first day, after we talked, he led me into the bathroom, and helped me into the bathtub; he said that I was sticky from crying and a bath would help. It was weird; it should have been more awkward than it was. With Daddy, it was just normal. He was quiet and calm and matter of fact, and I could feel myself relaxing into it, laughing and being silly.

And then, when I got out of the bathtub, he pulled out a pair of pajamas and started dressing me.

“I don’t need those,” I tried to push his hands away, “I want my jeans.”

“No,” he continued dressing me, simply moving around my hands, not offering an explanation.

“It’s 3:00 in the afternoon; I want to get dressed,” I wiggled away from him and went to grab my abandoned jeans off the chair.

I got maybe two steps before he snagged my arm and used it to pull me back and hold me in place while he smacked my bottom.

“Owwwww!” I shrieked. It didn’t hurt that badly, but I didn’t like it. “Why did you do that?”

He sat back on the chest and pulled me between his thighs, holding me still. “I told you no Eleanor. You’re putting on your jammies, and then we’re going to go relax.”

“I don’t wannnnnt tooooo,” I whined.

“What did we talk about Princess?”

I looked down, not wanting to be forced to talk about it anymore.

“Hey,” his voice was gentle, but he was insistent. “Who makes the rules?”

I blushed and shifted. “Daddy,” I whispered.

“That’s right. So, we’re going to get your pajamas on, and then we’ll go do something else. Do you want to watch a movie?”

I nodded, embarrassed. I had wanted this, but it was hard. I didn’t know how to let someone else do this for me; I had taken care of myself since I was four years old. Since the year I realized that nobody would make sure I was okay, and that it was on me to do it.

Daddy pulled the shirt over my head, then gently tapped my chin, “Cinderella? Or we could watch Lilo and Stitch?”

“Wizard of Oz?”

“Of course. We can download it, okay?”

I smiled and nodded, finally making eye contact. Daddy pulled me forward and kissed me gently. “There’s that smile.” He stood up and took me by the hand, leading me out to the couch.

Clicking on the television, he pulled me down to sit next to him, maneuvering me so that my head rested in his lap. It felt weird, and I struggled for a minute, until I felt his hand rest warningly on my backside. “Just relax. You’re fine. We’re just watching a movie; it’s okay.”

I stilled, and his hand left my bottom, coming up to my head where he began gently running his fingers through my hair. I gave a little moan of pleasure and allowed myself to relax into the sensation. He kept going, again and again, and I drifted off to sleep sometime before Munchkinland.

When I woke up, the living room curtains were drawn. My thumb was in my mouth, and I was by myself in the semi-darkened room. I sat up quickly. Where had he gone?

Oh God. Oh God. OhGodOhGodOhGod. He left. I’ve freaked him out. What was I thinking? I started rocking myself on the couch, my hand went back up to my mouth, and I began gnawing on one of my cuticles. I could feel my breathing speeding up, and I was quickly moving toward a panic attack. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on my breathing. I could calm down. I could do this. I had taken care of myself before; this wasn’t a big deal.

Not working. I needed to move. I had told him I wouldn’t hurt myself, but he had said he wouldn’t leave. I couldn’t find my nail file; I think he threw it out. That was okay. I can use something else.

I unwrapped my arm and stared at the scabs. I didn’t like to break the skin usually, but today...I began gouging at myself with my nails; over the old scabs, it was pretty easy to draw more blood. It hurt, a lot; that was good. Focusing on my arm, I didn’t realize he was behind me until he grabbed me.

“What are you doing?”

Panicking, I flailed and accidentally knocked him in the nose. He let go, and I moved away from him, standing across the room. I kept the chairs between us.

Mark had his hands up to his nose, and his eyes were watering. I stared at him, silently. I should apologize, but I won’t.

He finally lowered his hands and looked at me. “What were you doing?” his voice was surprisingly calm for someone who had just gotten smacked in the face.

I didn’t say anything, just watching him. “I thought we agreed that you weren’t going to do that anymore.”

I didn’t respond, simply glaring at him.

He sighed, “Come here; let me look at your arm.” He gestured for me to walk back to him, but I didn’t move.

“Ellie, I’m not happy that you decided to hurt yourself; you’re getting spanked already. Don’t make this any worse.”

“You left me,” I practically spat it out. “I woke up, and you were gone.”

“I was in the kitchen; it’s almost dinnertime. I didn’t think you’d hurt yourself with me in the next room.”

I couldn’t respond to that; it was a reasonable answer. I didn’t know what to say. I had just hit him in the face. He sounded calm, but he must be pissed off.

“Come here, I need to check your arm.”

I couldn’t look at him, but I forced myself to talk. “Are you going to hit me?” My voice sounded small, vulnerable.

He sat down on the couch at that, patting the seat next to him. “Come here Sweetheart.”

“I don’t want you hit me.”

“I won’t hit you; I might spank you, but that’s not the same thing.”

“It’s going to hurt.”

“We need to talk about what’s going to happen. I understand that you were scared and angry when you woke up and thought you were alone; I should have warned you. I don’t know if you’re getting a spanking or not. We need to talk.”

“I don’t want you to spank me,” I was practically begging now.

“You need to come over here Eleanor.”

Shaking like a leaf, I walked very slowly over to him. Something about being called Eleanor, that tone of voice he used...it was like hypnosis; I couldn’t not listen.

I sat on the couch, at the opposite end from Mark. It was the best I could do right now.

“I’m gonna scoot over so I can see your arm. Understand?” his voice was gentle, calm.

I nodded in response. It was easier if I knew what was coming; we had talked about that when we first started dating.

He slowly moved toward me. When he was close enough to touch me, he started talking again. “Let me see your arm Baby,” he still sounded gentle, but his tone was pretty firm. This was going to happen. I almost sighed in relief, knowing that I had to listen.

Carefully moving my arm, I extended it so that he could hold onto it. He whistled low when he saw the marks. I glanced, then looked away. It looked bad. I’d managed to rip open the scabs from last night along with creating some new marks. Most of them had broken open and were weeping blood.

“We need to go into the kitchen so I can clean these out,” he stood up, still holding my hand and started into the next room. I didn’t have much of a choice but to follow him.

When we got into the brightly lit kitchen, I could see that he had been working pretty diligently to make dinner. He boosted me up onto the counter top near the sink and pulled down a first aid kit we kept above the fridge.

I tried to jerk my arm away when he began cleaning it, but he had a pretty good grip of my hand.

“Hold still, if we don’t wash them out they might get infected,” he was bent over my arm, focused intently on what he was doing.

I whimpered, “it hurts,” I whined pathetically.

“I know Baby. You’re being very brave.”

I didn’t like it, and when he let go of my hand to grab the bandages, I pulled my arm against my chest, holding it protectively with my uninjured arm.

“El,” okay, now he sounded exasperated. “Now I have to clean it out again. You’re rubbing the cuts all over your shirt.”

“Nooooooooo,” I whined.

“Yes. Give me your arm please.”

I held still, not allowing myself to make eye contact. His no-nonsense tone of voice was hard to ignore, but I didn’t want him messing with my arm anymore.

“Eleanor, if you don’t give me your arm, you’re going to get a spanking.”

Well, that was enough for me. I held out my arm quickly. Those swats I’d already received had hurt, and I was pretty sure that an actual spanking would be worse.

“You really managed to do a number on yourself. Can you tell me why?”

I shook my head. I didn’t want to talk about how panicked I’d been when I woke up and he was gone. I didn’t talk with anyone about what I did. When I’d tried to explain it, I ended up having to make sure they were okay because it upset them.

“Ellie, that wasn’t really a request. You need to tell me why you decided to hurt yourself please.”

Darn it. That tone again. “You weren’t there,” I paused. “When I woke up. You were gone.”

“I know that Sweetheart. I was making dinner for us. Why didn’t you get up and try to find me?” As he said this, he finished cleaning my arm. This time, he didn’t let it go when he reached for the bandages to wrap it.

“I thought you’d left.”

“To go where?” he genuinely sounded puzzled.

I shrugged at that, not sure how to explain that I had assumed he’d packed up and left. Especially because we live in his condo. Now that I was in the well-lit kitchen, and he was so obviously physically there, it seemed ridiculous.

“El, the not talking thing doesn’t work. You need to explain what was going through your head.”

“I thought you were gone.”

“Yes, we’ve estab-” he stopped, a lightbulb going off. “You thought I was gone-gone? Like permanently?”

I nodded, still keeping my head down, too embarrassed to make eye contact. He finished bandaging my arm, again wrapping it from just below my elbow all the way up and around my hand.

“If you mess with that bandage again, I’m going to take you over my knee and spank you on your bare bottom.”

Gripping both my arms, he forced me to make eye contact, “I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me.”

Short and to the point. My eyes flooded with tears. I was such a mess. A good person would be shoving him far away as fast as possible before he got hurt.

I must have said that out loud because the next thing I knew I was being helped down from the counter and he had swatted me several times. I yelped at this, surprised.

“I don’t want to hear you say nasty mean things about yourself anymore.”

“But it’s true.”

He picked me up, carrying me back into the living room and over to an overstuffed chair where he sat down, me in his lap.

“Lemme down,” I squirmed, trying (unsuccessfully) to get off his lap. I was too big for this; I was too big to be carried too, but he had surprised me.

“Nope. We’re going to sit for a while and talk, and I think you’re going to listen better if you’re here.” He opened a drawer in the table next to us and pulled out a pen and a pad of paper.

“I don’t want to,” I protested.

“Unfortunately for you I didn’t ask what you wanted. This is what we’re doing.”

I pouted at that, arms crossed across my chest protectively, positioned stiffly as far away from as I could be while still sitting on his lap.

“Alright then. We already talked about you not being allowed to hurt yourself. I’m giving you a pass on it tonight because I get that you panicked Eleanor, but that’s a one-time-only deal. If I catch you doing it again-and I will catch you-you’re getting spanked. Understand?”

I nodded, refusing to look at him.

“I can’t hear you.”

“That’s because I didn’t say anything,” I bratted back at him.

“Do you want a spanking tonight?”

“No!”

“Then you need to talk civilly with me. Now, do you understand what I told you?”

“Yes.”

“Yes who?”

“Yes Daddy,” I blushed again at this, wondering if calling him Daddy would start to feel less embarrassing after a while.

“Thank you,” he started writing on the pad of paper. “So, the most important rule is that you can’t hurt yourself. And part of that is not saying mean stuff about you either.”

“What if it’s true?” I interjected.

“It’s not true.”

“But what if it is?”

“Eleanor, you can’t say mean things about yourself. Period. Did you listen to the doctor?”

“Didn’t want to.”

“Well, the doctor said that the therapist she’s recommending specializes in cognitive behavioral therapy. You know what that is.” It was a statement of fact, and I didn’t bother responding to him. “You get worse when you think negative things about yourself. So you aren’t allowed to do that anymore.”

I huffily thumped my heel against the chair. “Well look at the time, it’s 1984 already.”

“If your biggest fear is that I’m going to see the worst about you and still not leave, then welcome to room 101,” he said dryly. I couldn’t help but laugh at that, surprising myself. I’d been so wrapped up in myself lately that I’d forgotten how funny he could be.

“You’re still in there Ellie. I’m not going to make you stop being you. I just want you to feel better. And part of that is doing what the doctor said. So that’s another rule.”

“What if I don’t like the rules?”

“We can talk about the rules you don’t like Princess; if you have a good reason why the rule isn’t reasonable, then we can figure something out. But I’m in charge. I’m not going to watch you self-destruct.”

I relaxed at hearing that, starting to lean up against him a bit.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, gently tugging on the end of my braid.

I squirmed uncomfortably; I didn’t want to answer him.

“Come on Princess. You can tell me anything,” his voice was gentle, coaxing.

“I like it when you call me Princess,” I said it fast, mumbling.

Wrapping an arm around me and giving me a hug, he kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll remember that. I like it when you’re honest with me. I know that this is hard.”

I nodded, resting back against him, my legs over the side of the chair and my cheek to his chest. I toyed with a button his shirt. “It’s easier too though...knowing what the rules are; just having someone else tell me.”

“You know the rules already though Princess. I know that you know that what you think impacts how you feel. I know you know that hurting yourself is bad.”

I nodded again at that. “Sometimes I forget. It’s like there’s this voice telling me that I should do this stuff,” I had raised my free hand up and I was shaking it near my ear, trying to explain. “I should hurt myself because I’m bad and stupid. And it just keeps talking, louder and louder, drowning everything out, telling me that if I hurt myself things will be better.”

“But that’s not true, is it Princess? Hurting yourself doesn’t actually fix any of those feelings.”

I bit my lip at this, trying to figure out how to put it into words. “It doesn’t, but it does. Like, if I mess up at work, or I have a fight with someone” I stopped, trying to gather my thoughts. “If I hurt myself, then maybe I’ll try harder and not be bad next time.”

I could feel, if not see, him nodding his head at this. “You’re not bad Sweetheart. Sometimes you make mistakes, but you’re never bad.”

“I feel bad,” my voice was a whisper, throat clogging with tears again. I hurriedly dashed them away from my face. Why couldn’t I stop crying?

“I know. You feel bad right now, but that’s because you’re listening to that voice. We need to work on telling it to go away because it’s wrong. Hurting yourself doesn’t fix stuff.”

I was moving my free hand again, flexing it, trying to not think. I didn’t like talking with him about this. I didn’t like talking about the part of me that wanted to do this stuff. And that part of me really didn’t like it because she knew that Daddy was going to get rid of her. I wanted to scratch myself badly. Hell, I’d settle for pinching or biting really hard.

Daddy grabbed my moving hand and held it firmly. “Stop it. You’re not going to hurt yourself.”

“I want to,” I really wanted to now.

“No. I’m telling you no.”

I tried to relax again, focusing on that. Why did it make it so much easier to not listen to myself when he made me do it?

I decided to try one more time. “I like doing it.”

“That’s too bad.” Okay, brick wall. He wasn’t budging. I tried to calm down the shouting in my head by pointing out that this was outside my control.

Daddy’s voice broke into my thoughts, “you said it’s easier if I just tell you Princess?”

I nodded at that, shame-faced. It was not something I would want anyone to know; I was not the kind of girl who let a boy tell her anything.

“Let’s go eat some dinner.”

I was kind of confused by that. I thought we were talking first, but I figured I shouldn’t complain; I hadn’t wanted to talk anyway.

Dinner was meh. He’d made some kind of salad with kale and salmon; I tried to complain about it, but I was quickly informed that the salmon was supposed to help symptoms of depression.

“I hate salmon.”

“Uh huh,” his voice was disinterested.

“I’m not eating this.”

“You’re welcome to go wait in time-out until you’re ready to eat Eleanor,” he looked at me expectantly.

I decided to try a new tactic. “Can’t I please just have a sandwich? I’ll eat; I just don’t want this.”

“This is what’s for dinner. Do you need help?”

I shook my head, picking at the meal disinterestedly while he ate. “El, you’re not getting up until that’s gone. I’m going to give you 15 minutes.”

I glared at his back as he rinsed his dish and put it in the dishwasher. I didn’t want it. I wasn’t even hungry really. I looked at the clock and silently counted down until I could get up.

It took forever. Daddy kept busy in the kitchen, washing things and putting stuff away. He warned me at the ten and five minute marks, but I was the one who told him that 15 minutes had passed. I wanted to be done.

Daddy sat down in the chair next to me and pulled my plate over in front of himself. When I tried to stand up, he stopped me.

“Stay there. You didn’t want to feed yourself; I can certainly help you.” He picked up the fork and held it up to my mouth. “Go on.”

I pulled my head back and shook it vehemently, “No. I don’t want it.”

“I already told you that isn’t an option Eleanor. Now go on. Open up.”

“Fine. I’ll do it,” I tried to take the fork from him, but he moved it out of my range and shook his head no.

“You had a chance to eat it yourself like a big girl.”

I was horrified by that. “I can do it,” I protested. I didn’t want him to feed me.

“We can try that again at breakfast. For now, I’m going to feed you.”

I closed my mouth stubbornly and shook my head.

“Not a request sweetheart. Now open up before I decide this would be easier if you lost your pajama bottoms.”

I looked at him quizzically. Why would being in my underwear--dummy. He didn’t mean because I wouldn’t have pants; he was implying he would spank me. I begrudgingly opened my mouth.

It didn’t taste as bad as I thought it would, but I still didn’t want it. “I don’t like it,” I whined at him.

He held another forkful of salad up to my mouth. “It’s one meal. It isn’t going to kill you.”

Sighing, I obediently opened up my mouth. I ate several bites of the meal that way; I really didn’t like him feeding me. I should have just fed myself. There were white beans in the salad, maybe he wouldn’t have even noticed if I’d picked around and only eaten what I wanted out of it.

“No more. Please Daddy?” I begged. I really didn’t want him feeding me anymore.

“Two more bites, and you need to have some milk if you’re not finishing your salad.”

I crossed my arms on the table, laying my head down on top of them, “I don’t want to.” I felt like crying again. I think I’ve cried more in the last 48 hours than in the last year.

“I know, but you need to eat. Sit up now,” he had reached out an arm and was gently stroking my back as he talked.

I sat up and managed to take another bite. I felt like gagging. When he held out the last bite to me, I shook my head no.

“Eleanor, I’m counting to three. If you don’t eat this last bit, you’re getting a spanking. One.”

His voice was pretty serious. I figured he was telling the truth. I should open my mouth and just swallow the last bit of salad.

“Two. Eleanor Rose, if you make me count all the way to three, you’re going to regret it.”

“Thr-” I interrupted the last number by opening up my mouth and taking the last bite.

“Thank you. I’m going to get you some milk.” He stood up, taking my plate with him to the sink, then grabbing a glass from the cupboard. He poured the milk for me and then beckoned me over to the kitchen counter, where he made me sit.

Placing the glass in front of me, he turned on the lamp.

“What’s that?” I pointed at the ugly lamp.

“It’s for light therapy. Drink your milk.”

I glared at the glass. I didn’t want that either. “Why are you making me eat all of this? I hate milk,” I groaned, laying my head on the countertop.

“Because I’m mean. Go on. You’ve got 15 minutes, and then I’m going to spank you if it’s not all gone. We’re not going to have this production every time we eat.”

“But I don’t-”

He cut me off, “-want it. Yes. I got that the first six or seven times you told me. But it’s not about what you want, is it Princess? We agreed that I was in charge. Now drink your milk like a good girl.”

“You’re mean,” I mumbled, face still pressed into my arms.

“You poor baby,” his voice was indulgent. “Go on sweetheart. Sit up and drink your milk so we can go and do something fun.”

Okay, that kind of piqued my interest. Slowly raising my head up and looking at him suspiciously, I asked, “what?” The way the last few days had been going, he was probably going to force me to do something else awful.

“I thought we could walk up to the park. It’ll be deserted. You want to play on the swings?”

“What makes you think I want to do that?” I tried to keep my voice neutral.

He laughed. “You like the swings. You’ve forced me to go to the playground before because you like them.”

“Yeah, because swings are awesome. That feeling, when you get as high as you can and the chains go slack? It’s like flying,” I looked at my glass of milk. “I really have to drink this?”

He nodded at me, his hip leaned against the counter, watching.

Screwing up my face, I raised the drink to my mouth, and then drank as quickly as possible. Daddy reached his hand out for the glass when I finished. “I hate milk,” I told him again.

“So I gathered,” he said dryly, his back to me as he rinsed out the glass.

“Why do I have to drink it then?”

“Because it’s good for you. The vitamin D is supposed to help. It’s the same reason we ate the salmon tonight.”

“I like chocolate milk.”

He nodded at this, turning to me. “If I buy chocolate milk, will you drink it without throwing a temper tantrum? You’re going to have to drink milk every day sweetheart.”

“Do I still have to eat salmon?”

“I know it’s not your favorite. We’ll find some recipes you like.”

“There aren’t any.”

“Then you’re going to be pretty unhappy. The doctor said three times a week.”

I made a face at that, “once a week,” I countered.

“Twice a week.”

I sighed, but nodded, “Cheese has vitamin D too. I like cheese.”

“Cheese does have vitamin D, but it doesn’t have Omega 3s in it. Would you rather drink fish oil?”

“They have pills for that.”

“Do you want to go to the park?” he changed the subject.

I nodded at that.

“Alright. We can talk about food later. I’m sure we can come up with some compromises that we can both live with. Fair?”

“Okay,” I slithered off the chair and started toward the bedroom to change into my jeans.

“Where’re you going El?”

“To change. I can’t go to the playground in pajamas.”

“You need to wait for me please.”

“I can change by myself,” I protested.

He walked around the butcher block and took my hand again. “Not today. You can do it alone when you show me you aren’t going to hurt yourself.”

I pulled my hand away, “I don’t like that!” I wasn’t really shouting, but my voice had risen.

“That’s okay,” he grabbed my hand again. “You don’t have to like it.”

I scowled at that, and he hugged me against his side. “Come on, let’s go change so we can go play on the swings.”

I walked with him to the bedroom, “how long before I don’t need an escort everywhere?”

“That depends on you. I left you alone for 20 minutes to make dinner earlier and you clawed the crap out of your arm.”

“That’s not fair; I thought you had left.”

He had me sit on the bed as he grabbed my jeans. “Princess, it’s not okay to hurt yourself. I don’t care what’s going on; it’s not an acceptable response. I know that you know that El.”

“I just got upset,” my voice was high and I was tearing up again. Why didn’t he understand? It wasn’t a big deal.

He started to dress me, and I shoved his hands away. “I can do it myself!”

“Not today. Right now, you’re acting like a very little girl who needs a lot of help.”

I pulled away from him and rolled onto my side, facing the opposite direction. I didn’t want to talk with him anymore today, “I don’t want to go to the park.” I sounded sullen. My God, what was wrong with me? I did not do sullen. I did not do immature. Fuck me. When the hell did this happen?

He came around the bed so he was standing in front of me again. Grabbing my hands, he began pulling. “Up. We’re going to the park. You’re going to play on the swings. We’re going to have a good time.”

Frankly, it sounded rather ominous the way he said it. “I don’t want to.”

“That’s nice,” he continued pulling until I was in a sitting position, then he began stripping off my pajama bottoms.

“I’m not going.”

“Yes you are,” he pulled my jeans up and forced me to stand so he could button them.

“No I’m not!”

He pulled on socks and then shoes, carefully double-knotting the laces. “Arms up,” he said, pulling my pajama top over my head.

“I’m really not going Mark,” why wasn’t he responding to me anymore?

He pulled a new shirt down, then leaned forward and kissed me on the tip of my nose, “Daddy.”

I flopped backwards onto the bed, staring at the ceiling fan, “why won’t you just leave me alone?” I moaned at him.

“Because I can’t. Come on, stand up, we’re going to the park,” his voice sounded determined. I lay still, half-wanting to see his reaction and half-wanting him to leave me the hell alone.

I didn’t have to wait long.

Rolling me onto my stomach, he began smacking me square in the middle of my jean covered backside, his left hand on the middle of my back keeping me relatively still.

I yelped and wiggled, “stop. What are you doing? Stooooop!”

“We’re going to the park. We’re going to have a good time. Now get up and stop fighting me every damn step of the way Eleanor Rose.” with that, he let me go. I rolled away from and scrambled to my feet, both hands rubbing my bottom furiously.

“Why did you do that?”

“You’ve been begging for a spanking all day. If you want to keep going, I’m happy to oblige, but I’m thinking the swings are going to a lot less fun if you’ve just been spanked. Now, do you want me to take down your jeans and give you a real spanking, or do you want to go to the park?”

“Neither!” I stomped my foot. He was infuriating.

“Don’t stomp your foot at me. Last chance El, you can either decide to go to the park now, or I can spank you and then we’ll still go. If you don’t make a choice, I’m going to assume you want a spanking.” His tone softened as he held out his hand to me, “going to the park is going to be a lot more fun if I don’t have to spank you first Princess.”

I took his hand and we started out, “I still don’t want to go, “I told him.

“That’s fine,” and we went to the park.

It was fun. Something that I didn’t particularly want to tell Mark. Daddy. I had a good time, but admitting that...

When we got home, he ran another bath for me. When I objected, he told me that I was dirty from the playground. I was starting to pick up when he had been pushed to his limit, and we’d definitely reached that point today; I decided that simply getting into the bath was a better idea than provoking him into giving me a spanking.

Once I was settled in the tub, staring determinedly at anything else while he ran a sponge over my back, he began talking again.

“It’s been a hard day today.”

“Sorry,” I muttered, not making eye contact.

“I’m not mad Princess. I’m just telling you; it’s been a hard day for both of us. It’s going to get easier.”

“You don’t know that.” Great. I was about to start crying again.

“Yes I do. It was hard today, but things will get better. It got easier when you just did what you were told, didn’t it?”

I nodded slowly.

“You put a lot of energy into fighting with me so you don’t have to do stuff that you know will make you feel better. When you sat down and colored, when you went to the park, things were a little bit better.”

I didn’t really know how to respond to that, but I figured I had to try. “I still feel awful though. It’s hard to start doing something when I feel this bad.”

“I know that. You did a lot of hard work today. Sometimes, you’re not going to feel like you want to go and do this stuff, but you have to anyway. Do you know why?”

I had pulled my knees up as he talked, clasping them protectively. “‘Cause you’ll spank me if I don’t?” I asked.

“Well, that too. If that’s going to motivate you, then focus on that part,” he smiled at me, abandoning the sponge, and pushing my hair off of my face. “If you pretend that everything is okay, and force yourself through the motions, you’ll start to feel better. When you let yourself curl up and not do anything, it just feeds your depression. So yeah, I’m going to force you up and out, until you’re ready to do it yourself.”

He stood up and held out a towel to me. Helping me out of the bath, he began to briskly dry me off. When he reached my butt, I tried to side-step.

“Too rough Daddy.”

He slowed down and patted the rest of me dry. Wrapping me back up in the towel, he led me back to the bedroom and helped me redress in my discarded pajamas.

“It’s 8:30. Do you want to watch some more of your movie?”

I nodded, and went to the living room, where we curled up together the way we had earlier. “We probably can’t finish it. We can watch until they get to Emerald City though.”

“It’s only 8:30. We’re not going to work tomorrow.”

“Bedtime is at 9:30. We can read till 10:00, but the doctor said you need to get more rest so the antidepressant has a chance to work.”

“I won’t be tired at all by then,” I protested.

“That’s unfortunate because that’s when we’re going to bed.”

“I don’t-”

“-want to. I know. It’s just one more thing you aren’t going to like for the next few weeks while we work this out. Now, are we going to watch some of the movie, or would you rather do something else?”

“Movie,” I sighed, settling back against him. He was being really bossy. It kind of sucked, but it was also kind of comforting. It was confusing.

We watched the movie for 45 minutes, then he clicked it off.

“Nooooo! Please Daddy? Just a little bit more?” I had been drowsing on his lap, but the minute the television was turned off I was wide awake.

“Tomorrow. Come on, time for bed.”

He walked me through my usual routine. It was weird because he was with me, but it was the same stuff that I normally did. After I finished brushing my teeth and washing my face, he tucked me into bed and handed me a pad of paper.

“What’s this?” I asked, as he moved away from me and began changing into pajamas and brushing his teeth.

“Rules. Go ahead and read them so you know.”

“I thought we were going to talk about the rules?”

“We are. For now, we’re going to follow that list I made. We can adjust the rules once we’re more used to doing this.”

I pouted as I began reading through the list. There were a million rules. No hurting myself, following the doctor’s instructions, doing what Daddy said...some of it seemed pretty reasonable, or at least I had expected them. Even the no-swearing-at-Mark rule made sense.

It was the other rules that I didn’t like. Like the starting and stopping work at set times except in emergencies that I had to tell him about. Or that I had to get permission to work more than 40 hours a week. Or that I had to come home after work and I couldn’t go and do whatever I wanted. And the stupid rules about bed and food and just him micromanaging.

“But I like to go shopping after work,” I protested.

“I know. We can go shopping sometimes. But for now, I think you need to come home first.” Mark stood next to the bed as he spoke with me.

“I don’t want to go to bed at 9:30. That’s too early.”

“It’s another rule for now Princess. Once the antidepressant starts working again, we can shift your bedtime around until we figure out what works for us. But for now, since you’re having trouble falling asleep, it’s 9:30 to bed and 10:00 lights out. Now, what do you want to read tonight?”

“I don’t like the bedtime,” I made one last ditch effort to protest.

“Duly noted. Story?”

I shrugged, biting my lip.

“Do you want me to pick?” he pulled out his Kindle as he asked, and I nodded hesitantly.

Climbing under the covers, he pulled me against him. “It’s going to get easier Princess.”

I didn’t want to talk about it anymore, so I settled against his chest, asking, “what are we reading?”

Rather than answering, he hugged me, and then began, “ Mrs Whatsit. It was a dark and stormy night. In her attic bedroom...”


	3. A Failed Attempt at Breakfast in Bed

Between the nap and being sent to bed before 10:00 the night before, I woke up early the next morning. Mark was still sleeping next to me. I slowly and carefully moved out from under his arm and off the bed. Padding quietly to the bathroom, I washed my face and then stared at myself in the mirror with disgust. Once I had finished that little pity party, I went to the kitchen.

Today was a new day. Today, I was going to be okay. Pulling food from cupboards and the refrigerator, I began cooking. I was midway through making french toast when I felt Mark’s arms around me, hugging me from behind.

“You were supposed to stay in bed till I finished breakfast, “I admonished him lightly, turning around to hug him and give him a kiss. Then I saw his face.

“You were supposed to stay in bed period Princess. What are you doing?”

I turned back to the stove and focused on the french toast, “I’m making you breakfast.” I tried to keep my tone light. This was normal. Women made breakfast in bed for their boyfriends.

I tried to hold onto the spatula, but he gently tugged it from my grasp and sent me over to the kitchen counter with a light swat, “go sit down please.” He turned to the stove and carefully flipped the french toast before facing me again.

“Ellie, I appreciate that you wanted to do something nice, but I told you last night that you needed to stay where I could see you.”

“I was just making breakfast,” I protested. This was normal. There wasn’t anything wrong with it.

“I understand that, but you’re not supposed to be by yourself right now,” walking back to the counter, he pulled out the journal he had forced me to write in the other day and began writing something on a clean page. It took him about 30 seconds, and then he handed it to me.

“Copy that 25 times please,” he returned to the stove while I gaped at him.

“I’m not-”

He interrupted me, “you are going to copy that 25 times or I’ll spank you and then you still have to write the lines.”

Pouting, I looked at what he had written down. “I will do what I’m told and stay with Daddy.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I didn’t ask if you wanted to. Now do it before I decide that you need a spanking before breakfast. I’m not asking again.”

I stared at his back for a minute. He kept threatening to spank me...Making up my mind, I calmly picked up the notebook, and then whipped it at his head.

Now, it’s important to note that my aim is really bad. Like, really really bad. Like, I once got smacked in the face with a book my college roommate threw at me under the misconception that simply because something was being pitched at my nose I would catch it. Wrong. And it was with this knowledge that I figured by throwing it toward his head, I would likely hit the wall next to his head.

And yet somehow, for what was quite possibly the first time in my life, I managed to hit what I was aiming for. Oops...I sat on the stool frozen for a minute, shocked by what I had just done. Not even just that it had hit him. That I had just thrown something at Mark. Or Daddy. I might be new at this, but I had a pretty good idea that this was not going to go over well.

And I was not wrong. When Mark turned around, I involuntarily shrunk against the back of the stool, my eyes widening. This was not good.

“I’d like you to go stand in the corner over there,” he gestured, his voice controlled.

I hopped off the stool and practically ran to the corner. This was really bad. I stood silently for several minutes, waiting for him to call me over. I wasn’t sure what we were going to do next, but I had a very bad feeling that I was going to be finding out exactly what he meant by a real spanking.

I didn’t have long to wait before he called me over to him, and I went quickly, trying to show him that I was listening to exactly what he was saying and following directions.

He had turned off the stove and moved the pan off of the burner, but he was holding a wide wooden spoon in one hand still as he led me out into the living room. I didn’t really get why at first.

When we got to the couch, he began tugging down my pajama bottoms. I should have just let him do it, but I brought my hands up to push his away.

“Eleanor Rose, you keep your hands out of the way. If I have to tell you again, you’re going to be a very unhappy little girl.”

“I don’t want you to spank me,” my voice was high, panicked, and I stepped back away from him.

“That’s good. It wouldn’t be a very good deterrent if you enjoyed it,” leaning over, he grabbed my arm and pulled me to stand directly in front of him again.

Given that things seemed about as bad as they could get, I decided to make a last ditch effort at saving myself, “No! This isn’t fair. It doesn’t say anything about this in the rules. You can’t spank me if it’s not in the rules.”

He looked at me, incredulous. “You need me to tell you that throwing books at me is unacceptable?”

I bit my lip, not knowing what to say to him.

“That’s what I thought,” he finally managed to get my pants down, and I looked over his shoulder, focusing on the wall. This was embarrassing. Being half-naked in front of someone who is clothed is always weird. Knowing what was about to happen made it worse.

He guided me over his lap, and then rested one hand on my lower back and one on my bottom. “Why are you getting this spanking?”

I shook my head no. He could spank me, but I didn’t want to talk about why.

Raising the hand that had been on my ass, he smacked it down sharply. It stung, but not horribly. I tried to relax and focus on the pain instead of what was happening.

After smacking me half a dozen times, he asked again, “Why are you getting a spanking this morning?”

I was feeling sting-ier than I had before, but it still didn’t really hurt; I lay across his lap refusing to answer.

This time, he decided to spank me more than half a dozen times. He was silent as he brought his hand down again and again, and I was feeling less confident in my ability to outlast him. My feet were involuntarily pointing and flexing, and I could feel myself shifting, trying to find a less painful area to get smacked.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I flung back my free hand, “stop! That hurts!”

He snorted at that, and then moved my hand to the small of my back where he could hold it still. “Are you ready to tell me why you’re getting spanked?”

“I don’t want to,” my voice was little when I said that.

“Alright, it’s your decision. You might want to consider that we can’t take care of what happened this morning until after you tell me,” stroking a hand gently over my backside, he continued. “You look sore already; I wouldn’t want to take any more smacks than I had to.”

“That’s not fair!” I protested. “You can’t spank me twice for the same thing. It’s like double jeopardy or something.”

“I’m not spanking you twice for the same thing. Right now, you’re getting spanked for refusing to answer Daddy’s questions. Then, I’ll spank you for what just happened in the kitchen. You can tell me when you’re ready to start your spanking.”

I whined wordlessly at that, drumming my feet on the floor. “I don’t want tooooooooooooo,” I finally said.

“That’s fine. I’m ready when you are,” and with that, he began smacking me again.

I made it about another dozen swats before I broke, “I threw a notebook at your head,” I burst out, half-sobbing the words.

Mark stopped what he was doing and rested a hand on my backside, “yes, you did. Do you want to tell me why?”

I might be new at this, but I was guessing that wasn’t really a question so much as a command, “I didn’t want to write lines. It’s stupid. I just got up to make you breakfast; that was nice.”

“It was nice,” he agreed. “And I told you I appreciated it. But I also told you yesterday that you needed to stay with me. Did you forget that this morning Eleanor?”

“Maybe?” I asked, hopefully.

“Yes or no Princess.”

“A little.”

“El, this is not a little kind of question. Either you remembered or you didn’t.”

“I forgot at first, but then I wanted to make breakfast and I thought you wouldn’t be mad because you love french toast but now you are and it’s not fair,” I babbled in frustration, kicking the floor gently with one of my feet.

He gently ran a hand across my sore bottom, and then began talking. “So you knew that you were supposed to stay with me this morning?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“So you broke the rules?”

“Yes,” I mumbled against his pant leg, “can I put my pants back on if we’re going to talk?”

“Not yet Princess. If you broke the rules, don’t you think it’s fair that you get punished?”

“I don’t want to write lines though,” I whined.

“I didn’t ask what you wanted. Was it fair that I gave you lines since you broke the rules?”

“Yes,” I admitted, begrudgingly.

“Then why did you throw the notebook at Daddy?” his hand had stopped stroking and was now resting, ominously.

“Because I didn’t want to write lines. I just-it’s not fair. I want to be able to be by myself when I want to be.”

“I understand that,” his voice was gentle now. “It’s hard to have me telling you what to do and watching you all the time. But, we agreed, didn’t we Princess?”

“I don’t like it.”

“I know, but you agreed to it.”

“I know,” I sighed.

“So, you got mad because you didn’t like your punishment, and you threw something at Daddy. What do you think I should do about that?”

I squirmed in embarrassment, finally forcing myself to talk, “I guess a spanking’s fair, but I don’t want a spanking Daddy. It hurts.”

“I know. Should we finish?”

I nodded, my hair falling forward and hiding my face.

“Okay then,” he lifted his hand and spanked me several more times. Then he stopped again. “It’s not okay for you to do things to hurt Daddy, is it Eleanor?”

“No,” my voice quavered as I replied; I wasn’t sure what was coming, but I knew I was about to start crying.

“That’s right. We’re almost done,” I felt something cool resting on my bottom. I tried to turn around to see what it was, but then he raised it and snapped it down and I didn’t care what it was. Because it hurt. A lot.

I started crying immediately, wailing. “Daddy! Noooooo!” I begged him.

“I’m going to use this wooden spoon every time you try to hurt anybody, including yourself. You know better than to throw things at people. Understand?”

I nodded, sobbing, as he brought the spoon down a dozen times. When he finally stopped, I sagged in relief, just crying.

He waited for me to calm down a bit, and then he helped me up. He tried to have me sit on his lap.

“No Daddy please?” I was sore, and the idea of sitting anywhere was not appealing.

He looked at me for a minute, as though trying to decide something. Then, laying on his back on the couch, he pulled me on top of him. I rested my head on his chest and l cried myself out while Daddy ran his fingers through my hair.

After a while, I stopped crying and was silent. Daddy didn’t say anything at first. When he finally broke the silence, I could hear the rumble of his words against my cheek.

“What are you thinking about Princess?”

“Nothing.”

“Really?” he asked skeptically.

I nodded. I was tired again. “Just listening.”

“To what?” he sounded confused.

“Your heartbeat.”

He didn’t say anything in response to that, and we lapsed into silence as I drifted off to the sounds of his heart.


End file.
